


Dragons Will Come

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cats, Crack, Dragons, Everybody Lives, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys teaches Tommen about dragons. Varys and Jorah have a serious talk. Brienne and Jaime are otherwise engaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragons Will Come

**Author's Note:**

> Total crack, total canon divergence, really total AU. I played around with the canon timeline and royal titles a bit. I own nothing.

“They don’t breathe fire.” 

Tommen Baratheon, the First of His Name, Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and Defender of the Faith frowned in concentration as only children and members of the Conclave could. 

Tommen pondered the matter for several moments, nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, and added: “They sometimes catch mice and baby birds, and bring them to me. That’s not very nice. But they don’t breathe fire.” 

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, self-styled Princess of Westeros and Khaleesi of Essos, also known to smallfolk as the Mother of Dragons, shared the floor with the boy king, her silk dress cut in the Myrish style spilling around her curled legs, over the thick carpet covering smooth stone. Although she was a beautiful maid some years older than King Tommen, she hunched just as intently over the coal-black kitten which sat on the carpet between them. The kitten washed itself, paying the maid and the boy no mind. 

“You have to work at it,” Daenerys replied, her purple eyes wide and intent on the kitten. “It doesn’t come easily to them when they’re so little, but you have to start training them while they’re young. Otherwise they grow up wild, and when they do breathe fire, they can lay waste to entire cities.” A smug look flitted across her dewy face. “That’s how I sacked Yunkai and Meereen and Astapor, and broke the slaves’ chains. My dragons.” The last word rolled off her tongue like a sugar lump. 

“She likes saying that word,” Varys said softly so only one man would hear him. Ser Jorah Mormont, the Targaryen princess’ companion and protector lingered with Varys near the door of the king’s solar, watching the pair with the kitten. 

Mormont nodded, slow and ponderous and hairy as the bear sigil of his remote Northern House. “Talking about dragons calms her.”

“Hmm.” Varys rubbed his soft, lilac-perfumed hands together before concealing them in his silk robe’s wide sleeves. “One did not receive that impression when she was shouting about dragons outside the Red Keep’s main gate. My little birds tell me that your princess’ arrival in King’s Landing is still the talk of the city’s fishmongers and tavern wenches.” 

Mormont’s bearded face twitched with what in a less imposing, stolid man would have been embarrassment. “Time spent by her side has taught me that the princess’ ideas about the world are… delicate. She doesn’t take kindly to being reminded of harsh truths.” Mormont’s look darkened. “And she is not _my_ princess, eunuch. She is the last scion of a Great House, and…”

Varys interrupted smoothly. “… and that is why I took the small liberty of having the Red Keep’s gate opened and persuading the king to offer you both hospitality in these halls once ruled by the princess’ ancestors.” Varys paused to take in Mormont’s gape. “My good man, you did not really think the freedom of the royal palace is given to just anyone who shows up claiming to be the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Most pretenders only ever see the black cells.”

“Then why? What game are you playing?”

Varys’s hand fluttered to his cheek, as smooth as the princess’. “Your distrust wounds me. I feel only compassion for a fellow creature afflicted beyond her control. There she stood, in the street, making a spectacle of herself, screaming about dragons and fire and blood, dressed in tattered travel silks with a lone knight at her side...”

Mormont’s cheeks turned red. On the floor of the solar, Daenerys Targaryen was explaining to a rapt Tommen that all he needed to begin with were a few morsels of raw meat, which he could teach his dragon to roast with natural fire. Then he could work his way up to a whole sheep or goat, once the dragon was fully grown. Tommen seemed inclined to demand a sheep be brought to him right away so he could set Ser Pounce on the carcass. For his part, Ser Pounce was intent on licking around his tail. 

“If I hadn’t let you in,” Varys mused out loud, as though he’d forgotten Mormont stood at his elbow, “who knows what might have become of you? The smallfolk have turned churlish after what happened with the previous king and his mother. The unwashed can be so ignorant. Any more of the princess’ shouting, they’d have believed dragons truly would swoop down and eat their children, and might have torn you both to pieces in their anger.”

“Her delusions are harmless,” Mormont interjected. Varys raised his nonexistent eyebrows, and the knight dropped his voice. The pair on the floor played on, oblivious. 

“What does it signify if she believes cats are dragons?” the knight demanded, sounding desperate. “I’ve heard tell the last true dragons were so small, their skulls were barely bigger than a cat’s.” 

Varys fixed him with a rare frank look. “That is because the last dragons _were_ cats, Ser Jorah. Lady Daenerys isn’t the only Targaryen for whom the coin landed on the wrong side.”

Jorah Mormont opened his mouth, closed it with a loud snap of teeth. King Tommen looked up, saw nothing of interest, and returned his attention to the kitten he was becoming more and more convinced might truly be taught to breathe fire, if Tommen persisted in training Ser Pounce every day. Despite this growing conviction, Tommen remained certain that Daenerys was wrong to call Ser Pounce a dragon, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Daenerys was nice. Tommen didn’t want her to be cross with him, and she was always cross when someone claimed there were no more dragons. 

Varys watched Mormont while pretending to gaze idly at the children at play. The slave masters of Astapor and Meereen had likely already forgotten the odd young woman who had arrived in their cities claiming to command dragons, talked to cats in the street, and hugged slaves a lot, causing consternation among the slaves’ owners. 

Varys sympathized with the Targaryen princess’ desire to see the slaves’ chains struck off. He had been loyal to the Targaryens once, for a long, long time, while everyone had believed them gone forever. If Daenerys Targaryen was the best and last of her House, Varys was a practical creature capable of changing his mind regarding what would serve the realm best. The last thing the Seven Kingdoms needed after two mad and one drunken monarch was a mad queen. 

“You asked what game I am playing,” Varys murmured. “To tell you true, I had thought to play a clever game indeed, a game of many pieces and slow moves over long years. Now I find the realm could benefit from having the Baratheon, Lannister, and Tyrell names united around the throne. With the right guidance, a bit of good fortune, and a short Winter, our ruler could go down in the chronicles as the Good King Tommen. Regent Kevan Lannister agrees with me, which brings up a pertinent issue: you wish to marry the girl.” 

Mormont started, looked around in a way which made him seem far more shifty and rapacious than perhaps he realized. 

“She is mad,” Varys continued. “As was her father and many of her forefathers.” 

Mormont’s expression suggested he would have liked to rip out Varys’ throat, had they been alone. “She is a princess,” he growled.

“A princess whose name could still rally supporters. A princess who might allow an ambitious husband to use her in… interesting ways.” 

Mormont flushed a deeper shade of red. “I have no such ambition,” he insisted. “But she… She is…” 

He looked at the ceiling, the floor, out of the window at the fresh snowfall. 

“She is the sun, the moon, _and_ the stars,” the big man finished, his voice thick as with tears.

Ah. So. There it was. Whatever other troubles might plague the realm, Jorah Mormont was no more a pretender to the throne than Varys himself was. 

Varys wondered why he hadn’t seen it sooner. After all, he had the daily spectacle of the king’s uncle ( _even in the teeth of Winter appearances had to be maintained_ ) and his new wife, formerly the Maid of Tarth, to remind Varys of how joyous a sight a couple in love could be, how free of shadows, how blessedly tedious. Given how Daenerys Targaryen tended to become agitated and start talking about fire whenever she laid eyes on Ser Jaime or even heard his name spoken, Lannister should have moved to his ancestral home after the wedding. Instead he had sent his younger brother to act as Lord of the Rock, while Jaime Lannister lingered in King’s Landing, where his advice was much sought by his uncle the regent and the current Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Loras Tyrell. Lady Lannister filled her time drilling the palace guards and teaching the king swordplay, yet she and her husband were to be found most often together, alone in their chambers or one of the Red Keep’s many practice yards. 

Varys suspected that, unlike Brienne Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen would always love her imaginary dragons and pretend exploits better than she loved her bearded husband. 

Varys had been stealing and keeping secrets for almost as long as he’d been breathing. The prospect of Daenerys Targaryen married to a disgraced knight old enough to be her father held a certain ghoulish appeal not unlike the idea of the Lion of Lannister happily tamed or the boy king bedding chastely with his Tyrell wife and at least one kitten. Only with a concerted effort could Varys overlook the plots within plots the wedding of House Targaryen’s last scion could hatch. At least any child born of the union would not bear a name likely to inspire peasant uprisings or give restive nobles ideas. 

“Were the lady to produce living children…” Varys began, giving Mormont every chance to interrupt. True to form, the knight dove into the breach. 

“Our children would be Mormonts, not Targaryens,” Mormont insisted in a low, urgent voice. A whispered shout, almost. “Neither she nor they would pose any threat to your king. Upon my honor, I swear it.”

“I think you’ll find His Grace is _our_ king,” Varys replied, ignoring Mormont’s foolish oath. “As for Princess Daenerys, her line may dwindle in time, but she is still the blood of the dragon. There are men other than yourself who would rally to her for that reason alone.”

“You rallied away from her,” Mormont said pointedly. “Others may well do the same.” He gestured at the girl and the boy playing on the floor. “Have your little birds spread the word that the last Targaryen loves _our_ king dearly and enjoys teaching kittens to breathe fire. That ought to take the wind out of any rebellious sails.”

Varys examined the tall, burly knight. Jorah Mormont would bear close scrutiny, his protestations of good will and loyalty notwithstanding. Yet there was sense in what he suggested, and he had forborne mocking Varys’s lack of manhood again. Small gestures sometimes shaped important judgments.

“Could I teach Ser Pounce not to catch any more mice?” King Tommen piped up, looking hopeful.

“Dragons have no interest in mice,” Daenerys declared loftily, and Tommen’s face lit up. 

“You should think of a different name for him,” the princess continued. “Ser Pounce is not a very good name for a dragon.” 

Tommen stopped beaming and bit his lip. Ser Pounce had curled up and fallen asleep, did not wake when Daenerys Targaryen rubbed the kitten’s head gently, feeling dry scale rather than warm fur under her finger. 

_Dragons too are a shadow on the wall_ , Varys thought. _They exist where one believes they exist._

“I do not partake of wine often, Ser Jorah, but perhaps you’d share a cup with me?” The knight looked startled, nodded warily. “We have much to discuss. Weddings, you see. They seem to be the only thing which grows in abundance in these lean days.”

“Another man might misinterpret your taste in jests, Lord Varys,” Mormont muttered, his tone only mildly gruff.

Varys smiled a private smile at the courtesy, the big knight giving in, though he did not realize it yet. They left the king and the princess to discuss dragons, and the kitten to dream of flying in a sky filled with mice.


End file.
